


Made You Shine Like a New Pin

by jouissant



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alana/Beer, Chance Meetings, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-17
Updated: 2013-08-17
Packaged: 2017-12-23 18:21:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/929620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jouissant/pseuds/jouissant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It’s rainy and cool, and the bar is cozy, bathed in warm light. It’s the kind of place she doesn’t mind coming alone, so she’s tucked in a corner booth with a book. There’s a cheese plate in front of her, and next to it an impossibly dark glass of stout you could probably stick a fork in. Alana feels better for the first time in weeks. She’ll have to talk to Hannibal about barrel-aging something stronger next time. </i>
</p>
<p> Alana combats a case of the mean reds and runs into someone unexpected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Made You Shine Like a New Pin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aphrodite_mine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aphrodite_mine/gifts).



> Hope you enjoy this! I love Alana and Beverly and loved the idea of the two of them having some fun together.

Alana goes to see Will in custody on a Thursday. She screams in her car in front of the station, screams and smacks the steering wheel hard enough to bust a web of capillaries in her palms. Blood seeps out under the skin in patches of berry-stain. Her hands sting satisfyingly all through their conversation. 

Days later, slumped on the couch in front of the TV, she can’t feel them anymore. Already the little bruises have started to fade, errant blood cells resorbed, and it feels wrong to Alana somehow. Will’s dogs hunch on the living room floor, and whenever she moves they lift their heads and follow her with liquid eyes. They look suspicious, like they’ve already been let down by one unreliable human and fully expect Alana to do the same at any moment. It’s getting her down more than she wants to admit. 

“There’s a plastic thing of treats in the pantry,” Will told her. They’re sitting on her kitchen counter now, and she’d let the dogs eat every last one if they’d just do something besides lie there morosely and sigh their put-upon doggy sighs. You’re projecting, she thinks. But then a passably Will-like guy stumbles onto the TV screen and one of them honest-to-God looks up and _whines._

“That’s it, guys,” says Alana. “I’m going to bed.” 

She picks up the book on her nightstand and reads the same two sentences about twenty times before she decides it’s a lost cause and turns out the light. 

She’s called into work. She’ll spend a week, she thinks, figuring out how to fit a troop of dogs into her life and how to get Will out of prison. She makes progress on the former; she’s got a friend with a boisterous vizsla and a solid recommendation for a dog walker. 

But Will...

Alana is a scientist. She knows the strange alchemy of brain chemistry, the riot in Will’s mind that’s driven him to his knees. She knows it as sure as Will’s hand gripped the pencil as he drew that lopsided, drippy Dali clock, the assembly of lines she hopes will spell his salvation. She’s back on the couch, and the dogs regard her sadly like they know it’s too much to ask for, that the best bargain Alana can strike with fate buys her Will in a padded cell and articles she won’t write, posthumous or not. 

She needs to get out of the house.

***

It’s rainy and cool, and the bar is cozy, bathed in warm light. It’s the kind of place she doesn’t mind coming alone, so she’s tucked in a corner booth with a book. There’s a cheese plate in front of her, and next to it an impossibly dark glass of stout you could probably stick a fork in. Alana feels better for the first time in weeks. She’ll have to talk to Hannibal about barrel-aging something stronger next time.

She’s on her second beer, the room beginning to go a little softer around the edges. The swirl of hurt and worry is still there, but it’s distant somehow, and she’s grateful for the respite. The bartender is cute, tight jeans and a white oxford rolled up to the elbows. Her hair’s short and curls around her ears, and Alana watches her idly. She takes another sip of stout. 

“Dr. Bloom?” 

Alana swallows, feeling as if she’s been caught out. She feels herself flush as she turns. Beverly Katz is standing behind her, and it’s so unexpected that it takes Alana a minute to recognize her without her lab coat and goggles. She stands up, knocking against the table and threatening to knock her glass over. 

“Agent Katz! Hi,” she says, holding out a hand. Beverly looks like she wants to laugh. Alana shoves a lock of hair behind one ear reflexively. 

“Is that the oatmeal stout?” Beverly says, gesturing at the pint glass. “I had one earlier; isn’t it amazing?” 

“This is number two for me. So, yes, it’s awesome,” Alana says. 

“You here alone?” 

“What? Oh, yeah. I...I just needed to get out of the house for awhile. I’ve been off this week; I’ve got Will’s--Will Graham’s dogs, and I needed to figure some things out.” 

Beverly sighs, running a hand through her hair. She seems to slump a little, and Alana gets the impression that she’s not the only one here trying to keep her mind off things. 

“I heard about that, that you took them,” Beverly says. She winces. “God, that bums me out, you know? We had this boxer, when I was a kid, Rusty,” she says. “Every night at 6:30, that dog used to stop what he was doing, get up and stand at the door until my dad got home from work. 6:30 on the dot, every night. Sometimes I used to think about what would happen if he didn’t come home, and I’d think about Rusty just sitting there...” She shook her head. “I was kind of a weird kid,” she says with a shrug. “Little morbid. I mean, look how I turned out, right? Forensics. Poking around dead people for a living.” 

“Look how any of us turned out,” Alana says. 

They’re quiet for a moment. Beverly smiles, looks a little distant, like she’s remembering something. 

“So,” they say together. Alana laughs and gestures at Beverly to continue. 

“Do you...want some company? You can say no if you want,” she says. “My friends are leaving, but--”

“Sure,” Alana says. It’s impulsive; she was going to finish her beer and her food and call it a night, get back to her troop of judgmental dogs. But Beverly’s smiling, and there’s something suddenly appealing about the thought of huddling here in her booth with a comrade in arms, as it were. “I’ll buy the next round,” she says, and drinks her beer down.

***

“--and it turned out that the victim was into spinning--like making yarn, you know? And she used this certain kind of silk that we found just the tiniest trace of in the suspect’s trunk.”

“That’s amazing,” Alana says. She whacks the table for emphasis. She might be a little drunk. 

Beverly grins. “Yeah, it kind of is,” she says. “But God, look at me talking shop when you’re trying to get away from all this morose crap,” she says. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Alana says. “Pretty sure the morose crap is here to stay. I’d say I was used to it, but I’d be lying.” 

“Yeah,” Beverly says. “There are days when I think I am, you know? But then there’ll be some case...some dude who gives people skin wings, for example, or...”

“Or your friend puking up an ear,” Alana says into her glass. 

“Or...or that,” says Beverly. She sighs, looking down at the table. “I have to tell you, that was a rough fucking day. I have never wanted to be wrong about something that badly.” 

“I know,” Alana says. “I know.” She’s still pissed off, frankly, that Jack even had them working the case. But then he’d wanted the best, hadn’t he? Or maybe he’d just wanted to see if having his friends comb his clothes and scrape beneath his fingernails and sift through the dirt of him would break Will any faster. 

“Do you want another one?” she says, getting up. “I want another one.” 

Beverly looks askance at her emptying pint glass. “Okay,” she says. “One more. But get me a water too, and get me something lighter than the stout. You can pick; I trust your beer judgement.” 

“High praise, Agent Katz,” says Alana. 

Beverly grins.“C’mon, we’re like four beers in and I’ve eaten half your cheese plate,” she says. “Call me Beverly.”

***

Alana is definitely drunk. She hasn’t been drunk in a long time, and it feels _good_. Her skin feels electric and she wants to dance, which is why it’s unfortunate that it’s a Wednesday.

“I mean, I’m sure at one point I knew where you could go dancing on a Wednesday,” Beverly says, outside the bar. “But that was ten years ago and in San Francisco, not Baltimore.” 

“Unhelpful,” Alana says. “Well, I guess I’m calling it a night then,” she says. “I’d invite you back to my place, but there are like fifty dogs there.” She fumbles in her bag for her keys. She didn’t exactly choose her place because of the beer bar around the corner, but it was definitely a contributing factor.

“I like dogs,” Beverly says. 

Alana looks up. Beverly’s looking at her with an unreadable expression, and then she grins again, a little cocky, and something in Alana’s stomach does a little flip. Because that looks a hell of a lot like flirting. 

Fuck, she thinks. “Okay.” 

The dogs don’t even bother to bark when they get back to the house, just kind of look at Alana like, “Oh, _you_ ,” and cursorily sniff Beverly before flopping back down on the floor. 

Alana takes off her cardigan and slings it over the back of a dining room chair. “I’m getting some water,” she says. “Do you want anything?” 

“Um, a dance party,” Beverly says. “Unless something happened on our five minute walk here and you’re now anti-dancing.” 

Alana’s iTunes is embarrassing. Luckily, it seems to be Beverly’s kind of embarrassing, because she makes a pleased noise and clicks on a track right away. 

“Forget your water,” she says. “Dance with me.” 

And yeah, that look back at the bar was definitely flirting, because as soon as the beat starts Beverly’s grabbing Alana’s hand and pulling her out into the middle of her living room, slipping a hand around her waist.

Alana laughs, and it’s a real laugh, throaty. She hasn’t laughed like this in a long time, maybe since that day Jack caught her walking to class and started asking her about Will. 

“I’ve never heard that before,” says Beverly, and kisses Alana’s neck. It makes her laugh harder. Fuck, she does this sometimes when she’s nervous, which she suddenly is, like the carbonation from all that beer is bubbling up in her stomach. 

“Is this okay?” Beverly mutters into her skin. 

“Yeah,” says Alana. “I’m just...” She shivers, and that’ll have to be enough of an answer, because Beverly’s kissing her on the mouth. She brings a hand around to the back of Alana’s neck, burying her fingers in Alana’s hair. Alana moans, opening her mouth wider, and Beverly takes advantage, sucking at Alana’s lower lip until it’s sore and Alana moans again, half in pleasure but half discomfort too. She shakes her head, just barely, and Beverly retreats. As she does, Alana thinks she hears the faintest laugh.

“Let’s--” Alana tugs them backwards to the couch. She sits down heavily and pulls Beverly down on top of her. Beverly leans down and kisses the skin just under Alana’s jaw. Alana gasps and shifts, and Beverly’s definitely laughing now, a giggle that’s surprisingly sweet. 

“I like making you do that,” Beverly says, and kisses her again. Alana obliges, and Beverly seems incited, encouraged to place her hand deliberately on the inside of Alana’s knee and slide it under the silky hem of Alana’s dress. She scratches lightly at the soft skin there, and god, if she’d just...Alana shifts on the couch again, moving her leg so Beverly’s hand slips a little further under her dress. Beverly kisses her way down Alana’s neck, along her clavicle and down to the neckline of the dress. She runs a finger under the material. 

“Mmm,” hums Alana in response, twisting a little so the zipper at the back is obvious. Beverly’s hand skates around to pull it down carefully, and Alana sits up so the dress slides off her shoulders. Alana’s breasts shake a little as she does, and Beverly makes a pleased noise. Alana laughs and sticks her chest out, because yeah, she’s got a great rack and this bra is awesome. 

“That bra is awesome,” Beverly says appreciatively, reaching up to smooth a palm over the swell of Alana’s cleavage. Then she dips a hand in and scoops up one of Alana’s breasts, pinching softly at her nipple with deft fingers, and fuck, it’s like she has some kind of sixth sense about the things that are going to make Alana moan. Alana whimpers, which is probably worse, and kind of pushes her chest at Beverly in a way she hopes isn’t demanding but probably is. Alana’s getting closer and closer to not caring. Beverly slides her hand out from between Alana’s legs and slips her other breast out of her bra and teasing Alana’s other nipple, brushing the sensitive skin softly. 

“I wonder,” she mutters, leaning down to taste. 

“Oh, fuck,” Alana says, as the cool air of the room brings her nipple to what feels like a point in the wake of Beverly’s tongue. 

“Next,” Beverly mutters, and this time she nips a little at the tender skin. 

Alana can’t help it, she can’t. It’s just a purely autonomic response that has her sliding down on the couch, knees pinning Beverly at the waist. 

Beverly laughs at that. “I’m trapped,” she says in a low voice. She drops a hand and ghosts it up Alana’s inner thigh. “There’s nowhere to go but...up.” Slowly, torturously slowly, she moves her palm up Alana’s thigh. Palm down, taking her time, feeling along Alana’s skin almost experimentally. 

Alana twitches. “Please,” she says. It’s out of her mouth before she can think about it, and her face heats up. And it’s not like Alana’s usually _shy_ about this kind of thing, but...there’s something about Beverly’s bearing, her little bit of swagger. It does things to Alana, the kinds of things that make her want to be a good girl and say please. 

“Yeah,” says Beverly. “I think we can make that happen,” and slides her hand up all the way to the damp material at the juncture of Alana’s thighs. She hums appreciatively as she runs a finger over Alana through the fabric, scraping her nail lightly over the outline of Alana’s folds. She thrusts up a little, and it’s enough to send a spike of pleasure through Alana with just the suggestion of how it might feel to pull her underwear out of the way and let Beverly inside. Alana leans up and kisses her again, moaning into her mouth as Beverly crooks a finger under the lacy trim of Alana’s panties. When she finally slides inside it feels so fucking good Alana wants to scream. She buries her head in the curve of Beverly’s neck and nips at her clavicle as Beverly thumbs her clit. 

“God, you feel amazing,” Beverly says. 

Alana laughs breathlessly. “You,” is all she can manage, because Beverly’s working into a rhythm now. Already, Alana can feel a sweet spiral of tension tightening in her belly, and she’s way past the point of being anything like demure as she chases it down. Her muscles clench and release and seem to send pleasure in waves like hot blood with every pump of her heart. 

She feels very big all of a sudden, big or very small, maybe, as if behind her closed eyelids she’s lost all sense of perspective, all her ability to position herself in the world. There’s something apt about it, she thinks hysterically, because she has a houseful of dogs and no idea what she’s doing. But above her, Beverly smells like lavender and clean sweat, and she’s smiling against Alana’s mouth. 

When Alana comes back to herself later, the alcohol’s ebbed to a hazy throb and the room is soft again, pleasant like one beer in. Beverly is wedged next to her on the couch, which is really too narrow for both of them, and she’s playing with the ends of Alana’s hair. 

“I really did want to go dancing,” Alana says. She doesn’t even recognize what’s playing now; they’ve lain here who knows how long and they’re down to the dregs of what’s on her laptop. 

“Next time,” Beverly says.


End file.
